Can You Even Hear Me?
by fireweed15
Summary: Post-Decepticon Air. I'm not so sure you can even hear me, but let me pretend...


Sentinel Prime had never cared for medibays. Those were for the sick and injured, the dead and dying. No one to whom he was close needed to be there.

Well… save one.

Maybe that's what made coming home hurt, the _reason_. In the short time since Sentinel and his crew had returned to port, he'd been briefed and debriefed six ways to Sunday (as Jazz would later describe it): meetings pertaining to Ultra Magnus' condition (so far, his attack had not been made public knowledge), meetings with the High Council and a brief ceremony to transfer the proverbial mantle of leadership to Sentinel. Given the circumstances, it was all hardly more than a lick and promise. Everything was done with an air of uncertainty, a fear for the future.

Perhaps one of the few things Sentinel had learned that he could apply to the here and now with any degree of certainty was that as Magnus (Acting Magnus, he would remind himself), he had access to some of the most secure medical areas of the Metroplex. This is where he found himself now—trekking down a coldly lit corridor, deeper into the medical wing. In a way, Ultra Magnus was the sun of a solar system, the center of a universe of the sick and injured.

Sentinel shook the thought from his mind as he arrived outside the high-security chamber where Ultra Magnus was being treated; one swipe of a security card later, he was in. He paused to take a deep breath, an attempt at steeling his resolve, and stepped into the room.

Large and Spartan were the two adjectives that sprang to mind as Sentinel looked around the room. Medical terminals and storage cabinets, the former humming quietly as they did that for which they were designed, lined the walls. Faintly glowing screens displayed vital statistics from the past few days.

Finally, Sentinel's eye was drawn to the center of the room—the area he'd been trying to avoid, and yet had come to see—his commanding officer. Ultra Magnus had been settled on a berth and was hooked into every piece of medical machinery known to Cybertronian kind. Tubes and wiring connected his left arm, severed at the elbow, to the rest of his body. The biggest (and worst) portion of damage was concealed by the spark support unit keeping him alive.

Sentinel took a few steps forward, continuing to observe with something akin to horrified fascination. The damage to Ultra Magnus' neck had been repaired, albeit a little hastily, he noted as he saw the faint seams from the chassis graft. He also noted that someone had replaced the normal, uncomfortably hard headrest with a padded one—a small thing, but very well meant.

Sentinel stood a few paces from the berth and saluted. "Ultra Magnus, sir." There was a brief pause, during which time he remember himself and his surroundings; he dropped the salute. "Never mind, sir… I get the feeling you're saluting on the inside."

He could all too easily picture Ultra Magnus fixing him with a vaguely unamused look in response to his (admittedly flat) joke. The Magnus' sense of humor had, in recent years, eluded Sentinel… if it even still existed.

The acting Magnus edged a little closer. If Ultra Magnus as aware of any of this, in spite of his comatose state, none of the machines monitoring his CPU activity indicated this. Sentinel studied a readout, this one devoted to the spark support unit, before turning back to Ultra Magnus. "The best Cybertron can offer," he observed darkly. "I suppose rank does have its privileges."

So he was brooding, he knew that much. Given the uncertainty filling his mind, the fact that he could confirm his own somber mood was pretty damn good.

Sentinel pulled a chair from a nearby worktop closer to the berth. The sound of it sliding across the floor seemed twice as loud in the quiet room. He settled, almost awkwardly, into the seat, watching Ultra Magnus' still form. "Can you even hear me?" he asked softly.

As if he would get a response. "What a medical miracle you'd be, hmm?" Sentinel was sure that, to any outside observer, he looked quite mad, talking as if to a conscious mech, but if it made the room's silence less suffocating... Sentinel continued to talk, mostly stream of consciousness, and mostly about Earth. Descriptions of rain, trees, neighborhoods they hadn't seen during their first visit… everything flowed together, a little clumsily, into a narrative to while away the time.

He looked up at the clock as his description of Lake Erie was starting to wind down—had only forty-five minutes passed? He looked down at his hands. What could he describe that he hadn't already…? "Optimus is doing good," he finally said. "He's done a lot of… 'growing up,' I guess you could say."

Again, Sentinel started talking freely, this time describing Optimus' change from the awkward youth expelled from the Autobot Academy to a leader—still learning, but a leader nonetheless. From there, Sentinel found himself recounting memories of his own childhood (some with the younger Prime, some without), which in turn led him to memories of his Academy days… and to memories of a backwater organic planet he wished he could forget. At least his voice didn't quaver when he admitted, "I still miss her…"

There was a pause, during which time a commlink ping cut through Sentinel's awareness like a blade. He jumped slightly, but brought a finger to his comm. "Sentinel here."

An aide was on the other end of the comm link. _Sir, you have a meeting with the Council in ten minutes._

Sentinel grimaced. _Another_damn meeting? "I'll be right down," he replied. "Sentinel out."

He severed the communiqué, and looked down at Ultra Magnus. "I'll be back tomorrow," he promised… then paused, glancing around the room. Totally empty, save for Ultra Magnus and himself. Very briefly, Sentinel kissed his fingertips and lightly brushed them against Ultra Magnus' helm. "Get well soon, Dad…"


End file.
